


Hunt's End

by Chaifootsteps



Category: The Dark Crystal (1982), The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (TV)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alternate Universe, Clothed Sex, General not-niceness., I mean it., M/M, Offscreen gore, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Sorry Rian.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21569803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaifootsteps/pseuds/Chaifootsteps
Summary: In another possible future, skekSil has the sense to let the Hunter claim his trophy. Before he returns to claim his own, a small victory lap is in order...For floefrost.
Relationships: SkekSil/SkekMal (Dark Crystal)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 68





	Hunt's End

**Author's Note:**

> If your prompt is "SkekSil and SkekMal, maybe during that scene at the start of episode 5" and I respond by asking how invested you are in whether Gelfling live or die, you should probably not allow me free reign to explore that idea further and a very special thanks to Floefrost for doing exactly that.

The sky is syrup purple with the suns in their retreat. The knife on stone sounds a little like a grin.

It seems to skekSil that it's all over very quickly.

Mind you, he doesn't stay around to see it done. He's no _ghoul_ , no bloodthirsty Ritual-Master. If it were up to _him,_ if there were even slightly less on the line, he would have preferred to escort Rian back to the castle properly. Politely. In a carriage, where he could lay out his plan for the Stonewood to see sense, to work with Skeksis rather than fight a pointless war that will end with a great deal of valuable Gelfling life spilled out onto the ground.

But the Hunter has no interest in waiting, nor putting his faith in skekSil to walk away with something important in tow and return it later on. And skekSil, regrettably, has to admit that this is a very fair and reasonable decision.

He expects screaming, but hears very little of it from the bottom of the hill. A short cry or two, a muffled wail, and the smell of a great deal of blood. SkekSil spends the hour of silence that follows seated on the most comfortable downed tree he can find, peering at the small white mushrooms that sprout from the bark.

“Chamberlain,” comes the rough voice. “Claim what you will.”

He brushes foliage from his robes and waddles up the hill, drawing plans for how best to present the remains to the Emperor. How to prop it up for the ride home to avoid leakage. The bag is settled against a slab of stone, still as death, and happily, not leaking through. The Hunter cleans his favorite knife.

“Is that fugitive?” he asks.

SkekMal huffs at his foolish question, never looking up from his task.

“Hunter is satisfied?”

“ _Very_ ,” skekMal replies, with a deep satiation that leaves little room for doubt.

SkekSil certainly is. A Gelfling mouthpiece would have been advantageous, but risky. Rian was not without allies, his survivor's guilt hardly a guaranteed insurance against backsliding. Yes, yes...it's better this way. The Emperor will be thrilled to have one less concern to worry him, and blundering, stupid skekVar will be humiliated, all his impotent violence having yielded nothing of use to anyone. It's a crude victory, perhaps, but the first thing to work out in everyone's favor since the Crystal stopped giving, and it makes skekSil feel light, young, and hopeful.

And skekMal...

Well...he just wonders...

“Hmm, is no small accomplishment, to enter gobble patch and crawl free without a scratch. Such a thing has never been done.”

“Save your flattery for the Emperor,” answers skekMal, who has always been quicker on the uptake than your average castle dweller.

“No flattery,” says skekSil with a carefully adopted touch of injured dignity. “Never liked gobbles. Used to avoid walking in the woods because of gobbles. Big swarms of things... _euch!_ ” SkekMal lifts his blade to inspect it closely, and must find something not to his specifications, because he turns it over and starts in on the other side. SkekSil thinks a change of tactics is in order. “Is it good? To have sought hunt, tracked, and taken prize? Have always wondered.”

“There is nothing greater on the face of Thra,” skekMal answers simply. “Nothing matters half so much. Hah, you speak of immortality...drinking it, like a newborn Podling suckles milk. True immortality is hard earned. Hard _won._ ”

“Sounds _very_ invigorating.”

SkekMal sets down his knife, somehow no less intimidating than if he'd straightened up licking it. “I've a tongue to cure. Out with it.”

“Simply remember how Hunter always used to find hunts _exciting._ Used to come home, tongue lolling, blood racing. Before I take treacherous remains back to castle, and Hunter vanishes into shadows for many trine more, was wondering, well...”

SkekMal snorts. “Never change, do you? SkekSil, perfume on his feathers, nibbling on the Emperor's fingers. Tail in the air for anyone who asks.”

“Would you like to?”

He's assured no guarantee either way. SkekMal's scent is wild and deliciously strong, blood and sweat on his armor, skin running hot, and once upon a time, that would have brought everyone in the castle running. SkekMal is, in spite of it all, still a Skeksis. But the old, carefree trine have come and gone, and he wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised to learn that the Hunter has a whole slew of eager, willing partners to release his pent up, itching desire onto.

“Come here.”

By the time he's shifted his armor off to one side, skekSil is already on his knees, thankful the ground is forgiving against aching joints. His flesh can protest all it likes, but his spirit is willing as ever, and skekMal's phalluses are smooth and shapely as ever. He tastes them with relish, tastes the salt of skekMal's skin where his skin meets the twin bases, and indulges in memories of days gone by – when the Hunter would have deigned to join the Skeksis in their revelry. The first time skekSil ever rode him while the others watched, long and completely at his leisure...

The way he liked it back then, working 'round and 'round the tips, making a sloppy fist of his tongue for the shafts to fuck into. Messy. Shine of saliva.

SkekMal's rumbles and soft hisses are disquietingly close to the ones he makes when he's displeased, but skekSil's one to take his praise in whatever form it comes; dribbles of precum or claws tightening briefly on the back of his head. At one point, a grunt too loud and sudden to be of the sort skekMal gives voluntarily, which skekSil is especially proud of.

He wonders whether skekMal intends to climax this way and briefly contemplates asking, but why ruin the surprise? And so he works faster, warming to the thought of ropes of white on his face and beak, until--

“Against the trunk, where it curves. Lift your robes.”

SkekSil's stomach flips in the most agreeable way. “Where blood is spilled?”

“Yes.”

“Mm, as Hunter says.”

He avoids the worst of where the red has pooled and slicked down the grass, lifting the hem of his robes daintily. Palms on the trunk, fabric bunched around his waist, the question of whether his joints and back are up to this sort of thing the furthest qualm from his mind. SkekMal steps up behind him, low growl of dangerous approval music to skekSil's ears.

He wastes no time, claws immediately finding a home at the entrance to his vent; coddling and stroking with a brusque finesse that draws a yelp, but not a disapproving one. “Going to take you like this. But I don't expect that will be a problem for you, will it?”

“Never,” skekSil says happily.

“Still like it rough, do you?”

“Oh, _please._ Be rough with Chamberlain. Use me...”

He doesn't necessarily expect the Hunter to tease him, and thus is pleasantly surprised when he does; warm, damp tips parting his slit, making him coo and squirm until skekMal puts a stop to that with a sharp slap to his hip. That reminds him of his place, and how he has to be a good toy if he can ever hope to deserve being bred...

Evidently, it comes too little too late. SkekMal enters him with one phallus and one phallus alone. It's _just_ too little.

“Nnnn, _Hunter_...”

“Something the matter?”

SkekSil rolls his hips coquettishly, which doesn't sway skekMal. It _used_ to sway everyone. SkekSil can't begin to entertain why that might not hold true anymore.

“Come on, now,” the Hunter growls. “Give me one reason why I should let you have this.”

SkekSil can give him plenty.

“Hunter is strong, powerful...survived Gobbles, fed Gelfling captain to Gobbles, and carved the lying tongue from traitor son's repulsive mouth. Ground is so wet with blood...and Chamberlain...Chamberlain is small and weak, undeserving of being filled while standing in proof of Hunter's trium—ahh, _ahh!_ ”

He knows from experience that skekMal is capable of going in gentle. That he does nothing of the kind is an utter delight.

The Hunter braces himself with an open palm to the tree trunk, the other digging into skekSil's hip and restraining it for his initial thrusts, so hot and slick already. Secondary holding his tail out of the way; if he pulls it, skekSil is going to wonder just what he did to deserve all this recent good fortune.

“ _Oh...oh, yes..._ ” Truly, skekMal is the gilded edge on a glorious day, erections moving in clever and sharply effective ways. “Hunter is so generous to lonely Chamberlain. So _good_...”

He's not being hyperbolic. It's been a fair while.

“Is that a fact?” SkekMal puts that last secondary hand to good use, pinching and fondling skekSil's nipples in a somewhat idle way. “Are they neglecting you up in that castle?”

“Is true...Other Skeksis cannot fill me up the way Hunter can.”

SkekMal chuckles. “You're a _liar_ , Chamberlain.”

SkekSil's blood runs utterly cold.

“But...not if you can help it. Right? Peddling truths, half truths. You're a terrible strategist, but you've got a read on everyone, don't you?” Still moving while he says it, hips still rolling and taking, taking at his leisure, but leaning in, covering skekSil's back and pushing him further into the trunk of the tree, and skekSil is suddenly very aware of how little space lies between his jugular and the Hunter's mouth. “What are you going to do once you've brought back that Gelfling's corpse? Do you even know?”

SkekSil wonders if it would save him or doom him to pull away.

“Cease your trembling. I'm not going to harm you.” And of course he won't. Not like this. The Skeksis consume and take and tear, are stronger for it, but they have a few sacred things left – it's an inescapable part of them, and anyhow, even if it weren't, skekMal's reputation back before he stopped coming around the castle was built on him being all bark, or at least, it was once upon a time... “If I wanted you skinned, you would have been.”

That shouldn't reassure skekSil, but it does, and he shudders, hips rolling softly against the Hunter's. “Can harm me a little...”

“Oh?”

“ _Like_ how you frighten me. The thought of you doing to me what did to traitor...”

SkekMal's calloused palm cradles his throat. It lingers there, blood hammering against his lifeline. Stronger and harder than the thinning skin.

“You're a little parasite, skekSil. But you're hungry.” He caresses that pulse with his thumb, slow circles. “I can respect hunger.”

And with that, he fucks skekSil like he's never been fucked before.

A moment of clarity, just enough to feel him pulling back, and then skekSil is being pressed against the trunk _hard_ , hard enough to scrape bits of bark against his robes, hard enough to hurt. The thick, loud, bruising slap of flesh on flash, and the sheer audible wetness of his vent. He's out of practice at being treated so roughly, or taken so fast – the other Skeksis couldn't manage it if they wanted to, not anymore – and it aches a little, or it will tomorrow. It's not hitting the right spots so much as hitting all the spots at once, fast enough that even skekSil's overeager mind can't keep up with them.

So he writhes, buffeted by it, scraping at the trunk with his talons and wanting so, _so_ much to talk. To sing skekMal's praises, to describe in luxurious detail what a strong and effective killer he is, and how he, in turn, is a weak and wriggling thing who _deserves_ to be punished and cut up, and marked, and used as nothing more than a warm, tight sleeve--

“ _H-Hunter_ \--”

And then, skekSil just screams and screams and screams.

He wishes he'd watched. He wishes he'd seen him working, seen the light leave that Gelfling's eyes. His erections are tangled up where his robes are coming loose, leaking over himself, dirtying skekEkt's careful work, and he's certain he could have lived another age on it, being the only other one who'd ever held the privilege of seeing the moment when the greatest threat to Skeksis-kind in 700 trine became meat dangling from the end of a rope--

SkekMal yanks his tail.

And skekSil comes, shrieking like a Fizzgig bleeding out.

The Hunter continues to use him, ignoring – to his delight – his soft whimpers. SkekMal's climax blooms hot, his mating bite even hotter. Something warm runs from the place where his mouth clamps down onto neck, and some small part of skekSil hopes it isn't saliva.

SkekMal keeps his teeth there as he pulls out. He dribbles down skekSil's legs, and only in the wake of this finality does he let go. SkekSil, for his part, is absolutely glowing.

“...Ruined me,” he whispers.

SkekMal pats him on the rump.

They disentangle without further small talk. SkekSil straightens his robes as best he can, wondering if it would make him happier in the long run to wipe himself down with a handful of leaves like a filthy Podling or sit in the carriage with wet thighs. He wonders how perceptive the others will be in the wake of the news he brings; if they'll smell the Hunter all over him and know. SkekMal passes him the bag, which skekSil is careful to hold so that its cold weight does not rest against him.

“Hmmmm...” he murmurs approvingly. “May Hunter enjoy long, safe future. And many more hunts.”

SkekMal snorts, but...

“Likewise.”

Then he stalks off to attend to something on the edge of the clearing – his curing salts, maybe, or more knives – and skekSil, who has never been anywhere he's truly been wanted, knows enough to know when he's been dismissed. But his heart is light as he goes, full of victory, muscles well wrung out with content.

The last of the sunlight in retreat is warm on his shoulders. The smile hovering on his beak is sharp as a knife on stone.

Yes, he thinks. It seems that everything is, at long last, going to be alright.


End file.
